“God grant it!” was the fervent reply.
The result of the council was this: the guide, Cimarron Jack, Mr. Wheeler, and Sam, were to ride toward the north-west, if possible on Kissie’s trail. Burt Scranton and the teamster would follow with the wagons. The trailing party would proceed moderately, while the wagons would move at a much faster rate than usual to keep in sight. This was done to avoid being separated by Indians, should they meet with any. This arrangement (Cimarron Jack’s suggestion) afterward proved a wise one. But more anon.
“Are you ready?” said Jack, vaulting into his saddle. “If you are, follow the man who can thrash his weight in wild-cats with a ton of grizzlies thrown in too to make the skirmish interesting.”
“Yer ain’t quit yer bragging yet, I see,” remarked the guide.
“Bragging! me brag? d’ye mean it? whiz! I’ll cut your palate out and eat it—yes, I will, you know that yourself. Blood raw, blood raw! I’m the man that never says ‘boo’ to a lame chicken.”
“Hyar’s her trail,” observed the guide.
Jack vaulted backward to the ground, examined it, swore an oath or two, lit his pipe, boasted a little, then remounted and rode off on the faint, very dim trail, with the wagons rumbling after; the search had commenced.
The guide ever and anon raised his head and peered off into the northern, purple-tinted distance, as if half afraid of seeing some disagreeable object. However, he held his peace and relapsed into his usual, but for some time, abandoned taciturnity. Must the truth be spoken? The guide was alarmed.
CHAPTER V.
A DEAD MAN’S GHOST.